


Burning Fingers, Soothing Lies

by TrashyTime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Delirium, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fisting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Omega Verse, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Succubi & Incubi, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyTime/pseuds/TrashyTime
Summary: Geralt is burning alive with a succubus bite. All he can do is dream of clever fingers soothing the pain. All he can dream of, when he needs most, is Jaskier being beside him, as impossible as that dream is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 258





	1. Kiss me once, I see the truth

**Author's Note:**

> What is beta testing.... also I have no clue if anyone else wants this shameless self indulgent ficlet, but it is fever oclock and what is good judgement. This ficlet brought to you by nyquil and my obsession with omega Geralt and how that needs to be a tag.

It is the trailing of fingers that arrests Geralt when his eyes close. Not the lips that shape words and smiles both. Not the eyes that show him no fear and only exuberant hope. Not the ass so tight he swears it could bounce coins nor the thighs that flex so appealingly beneath fine tailored trousers. 

It isn't even the cock he has seen in glimpses and shadows or the spicy woodsy scent that makes him salivate when the Bard forgets his lotions and sweats clean and fresh from the road. It is those fingers that Geralt sees when he closes his eyes, dreams filled with honey warmth from a succubus bite. 

He has watched those fingers since the first time in that long ago tavern. Unmarked or lined from boyish work, noblemen alone having hands so pampered. Yet there shoving rolls into fine pants without pause or hesitation. Flitting and flipping as he eagerly speaks, feathering across the table and plucking the air as he was just plucking the strings mere moments before. 

Geralt had wanted to feel those fingers, had felt them many times, in the decades that followed. Felt them tend his cuts and bruises. Felt them massage lotions into his ass so close to where his folds were safely hidden. 

Geralt has watched those hands bloody, gentle, even stern. He always sees those hands, feels then as instead of soothing salve they tweak his own nipples. Feels the dream of those hard won lute calloused fingers pulling sweet music from the instrument of a worn watcher's body. 

He dreams, with fever sweat upon his brow, of those fingers tracing his muscled belly down the V past his cock. Chasing the iliac crest to the nestled folds blooming from their concealed charm just for their delighted exploration. 

He swears he can feel them flutter and tap with growing certainty across his folds, curling to pull slick up from within. The wet heat spilling over the hidden button swollen at the crest of the folds, hot wet as a tongue where that clever thumb swept it side to side. 

Geralt moaned as his hips rolled, swearing in his fever dream, that a clever palm was rubbing up his cock, his own balls pushed higher by a thick wrist. He wanted so desperately for the cool air over his belly and nipples to be the breaths of the noble lad that chose a bard's life at his side over the finest of courts. 

Geralt wished he could be a sweet house omega, like those Jaskier bedded, and allow the man to play with him, to know his slick heat. He whined, needs older than words clawing their way through him as the bite burned him alive. He panted great heaving breaths, the blood splattered on his face flaking as his own trilling omegan whines echoed in his ears from cavern walls in a thunderous deafening cacophony. 

Geralt burned brighter with every breath, the need inside grew, something no fingers, no clever tongue, could sate. 

The words pressed to his skin were lies concocted by his own mind, his bard not here, he was alone with his fever and his dreams, but he swore his lover was real, in his delirium. His thighs spread wider as he keened his need, begging without words for the filling he so desperately needed. The fingers pressed, two, three, a whole hand slowly slipping into him to fist him full as he wailed and gushed up that wrist. As Geralt clenched on clever fingers and came undone with the sort of all consuming pleasure that broke omegas in the worst ravages of heat madness. 

The dream pressed messy teary kisses and prayers to his quivering belly, begging Geralt to stay with him even as more sobbing panting begging spilled from his own lips. Filthy words mangled and muffled as thoughts and needs clashed with fever but one thing pervaded them all. "Jaskier, Jaskier, knot, please, please don't leave me!" His messy begging beyond shame or thought. 

Just his heart cracked open to bleed emotions and desires across a dirty cavern floor. A sweaty messy painful heat for a witcher alone with only corpses and fantasies for company. A fitting end for a miserable mutant, that had chased off the only being to ever love him so completely. To return his love with bottomless loyalty instead of unending pain. 

He sobbed again for his lost never was lover, arching and tearing at himself even as he rode that fist with abandon, desperately seeking a salvation that would never come, a knotting release no stand in could ever give him. "Jaskier! Please! Julien, I am so sorry, I loved you please!" He roars, sobbing and writhing with sexual need and emotion both in fierce competition for what pained him the most as he felt himself boiling alive inside.

The soothing lie of his own mind only made it worse, saying words he wished were real in a voice that tore at him as surely as any blade would rend his unarmored flesh. He collapsed, boneless and despondent, sobbing again for what he could never have, both hands curling in his own hair even as the fever dream gave him the illusion of being filled. "Julien-" the name tore from him, ached and throbbed it's way out of him in great heaves that left him shaken and weak as a kitten in the overwhelming aftermath of those terrible orgasms. 

Energy left him and darkness slowly stole even the fever dream from him. The petting fingers slowly fading to empty blackness as he finally, blissfully, passed out to recover from the killer fever and this blistering heat.

He was nearly glad for their loss. He could not stomach the thought of returning to reality, alone with just his horse once more, false memories forever taunting him with what could have been but never was. He embraced the blackness, selfish as it was, for the comfort the nothingness gave him.


	2. Kiss me twice, I beg you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes to cool water and warm words, a dream too good for his brain to be rewarding him with.

Cool water trickles across his chest, tracing over and around his nipple, rivulets wending down the channels of his scars. The cloth is carefully rubbed over his throbbing and painfully swollen glands and the succubus bite festering it.

Geralt's brow furrows and cool fingers, clever impossible fingers, sooth it. Massaging traces his brows and his face is clean. No tacky pulling of dried blood or gooey slime of dried sweat and spittle weighs on his skin, his damp hair all brushed back from his skin. He is laid out on his own cloak, naked still. His body stripped of his armor and cloth, even his boots and socks removed. 

He curls his toes, processing this fact slowly as the soft soothing humming continues, masculine and impossible. "So my mind broke" Geralt's voice cracks on this, and the humming stops. There is layers of exasperation and hurt in the voice that replaces it, and while Geralt wants to open his eyes he also wants to never open his eyes. Never to confirm this is all his imaginings. 

"Yes because your fever sick brain could gather stream water and clear corpses and set up a camp and bother caring for yourself when you probably can't touch your own nose right now without trembling like a leaf." Geralt scowled a little, earning a wet slap of cloth to his chest and an exasperated huff. 

There was rustling and shuffling, sounds of a body moving. Geralt's traitorous brain translated the sounds to be those clever hands raised in exasperation, the dramatic flair so common he could map the arc of the fingers without his eyes feeding a single shadow nor flicker to him. The fire popped and settled into its ashes, the sound loud when he was following motions by hearing alone. 

His eyes watered in the light, open to see the pale form before him staring at him with that expected exasperation. What was not expected was the red rimmed eyes and signs of the alpha having been crying long and hard. The puffiness around his eyes unfamiliar enough to be jarring, especially as it made the crows feet beside his eyes look somehow even more pronounced. 

"Jaskier?" His voice was not strong, almost scared. It was as if in this second he was that long ago boy, before witcher trials ripped out his humanity. His voice was as small and soft as that long dead boy, still chubby with baby fat, having his first and last precocious heat in the basement of the labs. 

There was a pained softness to the Alpha's face. Those clever, cool, damp hands returned, one pressing over his heart and one gathering his own much larger hand to squeeze gently as their fingers twined. "I am here, Geralt. It isn't some mind sickness. I came into the cave and found you, found you tearing at yourself in the throes of heat madness. The worst seems to have passed." 

Geralt froze, and part of him, the part still capable of shame, curled up inside, wanting to wail, while other parts of him were just glad he wasn't alone. What won out was neither of them though, instead he blurts with all the grace of an ox breaking it's yoke, "why would you help me? After the terrible things I said to you?" 

Geralt expects anger instead there is a sharper sadness and those eyes, if anything, look even older. Geralt can not keep the gaze, despite how his hand reflexively tightens on the strong hand tangled with it. His heart thunks in his chest and shame and unworthiness curl in his belly. He feels weak and foolish, not least for allowing himself to have been bitten and laid so low. 

"Your view of humanity will never cease to amaze and horrify me. You have seen such monsters in human form yet still fight to protect us. The baseline you expect is so far below humane it seems it should be us you protect the world against instead." The voice is lighter than the weight of their meaning, the hand on his chest moving up to cup his broad chin. 

Geralt ducks into the hand, curling down and hiding in the clever fingers, the strong scent of alpha screaming from the wrist gland soothing some deep instincts inside him. His own slick and cum scented the skin and the mingled scents did more to settle the witcher than a thousand softly sung lullabies could. 

The words could not be taken back, from either of them. Geralt's stomach churned, but he could see the cracks in the skin, this close to those hands. He could see the creases at wrist, the imperfections of age beginning to creep upon his bard like bandits in the night. 

It made it far too real. The voice that haunted his dreams continues, gentle in ways Geralt does not deserve. "Even if you were a complete stranger, I had to come offer aid. You may have hurt me with your words, but that hurt doesn't erase the fact that I care for you. That I am glad that if you must go through this, must endure such a heat? That you are not alone through it." 

Geralt wants to blame the tears that escape his eyes on the swelling hormones and returning fever. He wishes the trembling kisses he presses to that palm were not salty with the overflow that will no more stop than his furl will stop dripping slick into his cloak. The breaths hitch audibly, both of them overwhelmed with the emotions and things unsaid between them. 

Geralt's voice cracks and he feels shame win the moment, over even the love he has swelling within him for his bard. "I don't deserve you." 

The reply is soft, choked and thick for all it's speed in returning. "Love isn't about deserving. It is about building. If you want to discuss it after your heat… we can. But even if you choose not to discuss this, decide you want nothing more to do with me, after this is passed, you have me while we weather this." 

Geralt clung to that hand in his own as the fever began to boil him again, messy tears and messier kisses dotting that palm as he felt so overwhelmed once more, things that had nothing to do with the heat having such a convenient excuse to cover their bubbling to the surface. 

"I will never apologize enough." He manages through a thick voice, and their joined hands are lifted to the other man's lips. Geralt's thumb is kissed with such tenderness it breaks things inside him. 

The warmth of those moist breaths across his fingers make the words feel more real, despite how surreal their existence feels in the air. "I don't need groveling nor prostration. I need your love, and you to focus on the now with me, not whatever darkness on the horizon. There will always be some future pain or some trouble of tomorrow to borrow." Geralt's breath hitches and he can't help looking up to search Jaskier's face. 

There is a wry tilt to his lips as he brushes back the damp locks, trailing down the side of Geralt's face once more. "Yes, you mentioned how you couldn't stand to bury me, and how you fretted my age. It was terribly ego stroking to be half consigned to the grave while you were riding my fist as if it had done you a personal wrong." Geralt's stomach clenches and goes weightless, he gapes at his, at his lover and beloved and it rattles him, how mature his lover, so long a boy in his eyes and mind, has become. 

The boy not quite an adult from that long ago tavern is there, parts of him still gleaming, but before him is a man tempered by the path they have shared as well as his own meanderings alone. A man in full, stable and wisened by hundreds of relationships and moments to grow. 

It should not be possible to love him even more than he already had. Yet the swooping warmth suffusing him has nothing to do with hormones, no matter what part of his mind tries to defend itself by saying. His mouth opens twice to click shut wordless and unable to push out anything at all. 

Jaskier's amusement was somehow easier than the gravitas of just a moment prior. "I wish it was more of an accomplishment to strike you speechless, but it's far more of a feat to make you loquacious." 

Geralt doesn't so much make the choice to lift his head seeking a kiss, as does so blindly and without any real hope it will be returned. The meeting of lips is much too perfect, teary and salty, as much as the kiss is sweet and sending sparks zipping down to settle in the embers of fire in his gut. It is the very imperfections that keep Geralt from feeling lost in a fever dream. His hand not tangled together moves to cling to Jaskier's chemise, shuddering as the kiss slowly blooms deeper, the alpha slowly pressing onto him. 

Their eyes meet, warm love rolling between them like invisible waves. "I love you. Have loved you a long time." Jaskier's lips twitch in another wry smile, and he looks slightly saddened. "And I you… but that is talk for, and actions, for after heat." 

Geralt shudders, and while he wants to beg for his alpha to stay on top of him and fill him, wants to beg for them to make love as his lips are dripping with rising need, instead he asks, "could you repeat the care you gave me earlier? Your fingers… they are what I first was attracted to, before any other part of you drew me in." 

There is a delighted laugh, and that second kiss, despite being shorter, somehow feels even better. Lighter. The smile is infectious, despite the crinkling around the edges of it, or maybe because of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there is enough desire, I can go back and fill in from Jaskier's view. But this was much easier to pound out.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel if I ever do it, ofc will be of Jaskier stumbling across Roach in the woods and finding a delirious sobbing Geralt in a cave, unable to give consent no matter his begging. Still torn up about the words said to him, but unwilling to leave the witcher omega to suffer such a horrible heat without aid or company. 
> 
> His own torment as he fingers and then fists the man he has so desperately loved for so long, begging him to stay with him, to not go mad or break from this incredibly rough heat. 
> 
> Pressing words of love to fever slick skin as he cries for the love he might almost believe was returned if not for how sure the witcher is Jaskier is only a delusion.
> 
> However I am probably the only one so consumed with this particular expression of the pairing so we will see if I find the energy to tackle it.


End file.
